


Cheaper to be guilty

by ninastirith



Category: Tokio Hotel
Genre: M/M, bank robbers au, incest warning, this is on thf and has made people cry welcome to the party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 00:32:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5687686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninastirith/pseuds/ninastirith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"... than lie right through my teeth." </p><p>Nothing ever changes, but then again, everything does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue.

**Author's Note:**

> I hadn't written multichaptered, or AUs, for a long time before I wrote this one. This fic exists majorly thanks to Tova.

A block away from the bank, Bill stops the car and takes out their ski masks from the glove compartment. They pull them over their heads in silence - the air is thick not with stress or nervousness, but rather determination. Focus. Tom checks his gun for the thousandth time. It’s there, it’s loaded and it’s secured so he won’t shoot his foot off by accident. He takes a deep breath, exhales and takes another. Bill grabs his gear and secures in his lap before looking over at his brother.

“Ready?” he says. The knitted black fabric of his mask moves only slightly in the area that covers his mouth. Tom nods.

Bill takes them down the block. They slam the car doors shut in unison as they climb out. With his shoulder, Tom pushes one of the heavy bank entrance doors open.

Everything happens very quickly.

Tom fires the gun in the air, one time, two times, again and again as the few customers occupying themselves in the bank hall drop to the ground. An old lady takes a little longer than the rest, wincing as she supports herself on arms and probably bad knees.

“Stay down! Stay on the ground!” Tom shouts and fires again. He throws a look over his shoulder and catches a glimpse of a man who’s almost face down on the floor. The man has his cellphone pressed to his ear with a shaking hand. It proves enough to just lazily aim at him. With a whimper, he lets it go and sends it gliding across the marble floor in Tom’s direction.

Tom turns around, ready to head for the counter only guarded by a young receptionist who is shaking in her chair so hard that it squeaks in the fusings. He’s not needed there, though. His brother is already behind the counter. Bill’s handheld gun is pressed to the young woman’s temple - it’s an image that would make Tom’s stomach turn if he didn’t know the gun isn’t loaded.

“We’re gonna go get it, and you’re gonna shove it all in there”, he hears Bill say. The hand that isn’t busy with his gun holds the big, black sports bag they brought with them and he waves it at her. Bill’s eyes aren’t as wild as they used to be for this part of the jobs from where they peek out through his ski mask. The brothers aren’t old, but they’ve been busy and Tom has lost count of how many jobs they’ve worked at this point. Practice makes perfect in every sense. Their line of work is no different.

Bill grabs the receptionist by one of her blouse clad arms and shoves her into a back room before following. Tom turns to the bank hall which isn’t very big or extravagant, except for the stone floor. They’d taken their time to work out the best time of day for this one: One guard who Tom shot in the leg and whose radio he stole, as few customers as possible. In a way, he muses, a job can always be easy if you know what you’re doing. They’d learned the hard way; considering their early days it is a miracle that they haven’t been caught yet.

His brother and the receptionist returns, Bill with the bag hitched up on his shoulder, the young woman in tears. Bill nods at Tom. He fires his gun at the ceiling once more before they clear out - not a second is wasted between the bank doors and the road. It was a routine job and Tom barely remembers it happening, barely feels it although that might be the adrenaline. Bill quickly tears his mask off and shoots them down the highway as fast as the nicked escape car allows. He throws his head back, laughing in relief and Tom can see his eyes gleam and glisten.

“We did it!” Bill exclaims, letting go of the steering wheel with one of his hands to squeeze Tom’s shoulder enthusiastically. “Another one down, we did it, Tom!”  
Tom smiles at the empty road ahead that stretches through the desert lands for miles and miles. He’s not exactly sure why Bill is so excited about this job like any other, one to keep them fed and moving for a while more. He lets him have it, though. They put in a lot of planning time in this one and judging by the size and swelling of the black bag in the back seat, it paid off. If they stay vigilant and lucky now, they could have months before having to go again. That, or maybe Tom can finally get himself a new guitar. He hasn’t had one in years.

This is what they do, Bill and him. They race the law and the setting sun and Tom doesn’t see how it will ever end. It’s the two of them doing what they have to do for the only people they trust: each other.

As the sun disappears behind the horizon, they switch seats a couple of times. They can’t stop, not yet. Tom volunteers to take the first night drive shift.  
“Wake me up around 4 and I’ll switch with you,” Bill says with a yawn before he turns to rest his forehead against the passenger seat window. Tom nods and makes a mental note of letting him stay out half an hour longer than that. They may be grownups now, approaching their mid-twenties and not teenagers sleeping out on the streets anymore, but Bill is still his younger brother even though it’s only a ten minute difference. It’s Tom’s responsibility to keep him safe and well and he’s more than happy to do it at the expense of his own sleep.

And in addition to that, Tom thinks with a small wince, maybe that way his shoulder will have stopped burning and buzzing where Bill touched him by the time he falls asleep.


	2. one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to kick it off for real.

The sun is only just starting to climb the sky when Bill pulls them over. They’re not as far along as he’d have liked, but his growling stomach won’t let itself be ignored anymore. Besides, how many people can there be at a road side diner in the middle of nowhere at five in the morning?

“Tom,” he says in a hushed voice, shoving his sleeping brother gently. No response.

“Come on, Tom,” Bill urges again, shoving him harder this time. Tom is the heaviest sleeper out of the two of them, even though life has made him jumpier and more vigilant than he used to be.

This time, he does turn a little. A low grunt escapes him and he looks up, eyes tight with sleep. Something inside Bill stirs and tingles but he ignores it the best he can. As always, he ignores it. Archives his feelings to the back of his head for another time.

“Are you awake? We’ve stopped, time for breakfast,” he exclaims. He opens the front seat door and doesn’t wait for Tom to get out.

The place is small and empty with an exception for two waitresses and a couple half asleep in a booth far from the door. A cheap smell of old fries and oil infests the air. Bill can’t help but reckon that the diner would make for a good robbery, just out of habit. He slouches himself down on one of the couches in a booth consisting of two, Tom following onto the one on the opposite side of the greasy table.

“D’you lock the car?” Bill asks his brother.

Tom shoots him a tired look.

“Of course, who do you take me for?”

Bill puts his hands up in retaliation.

“Sorry, sorry, ‘course you did,” he says, all eye rolls at Tom’s morning moodiness.

A waitress approaches them and Bill orders coffee for them both and, after some contemplating, two orders of the breakfast menu. There’s no telling when they’ll be able to stop to eat again.  
Tom’s head falls back against the couch when the waitress leaves. He smiles a lazy smile at the dim lights in the ceiling.

“It’s times like these I’m happy I’m not a vegetarian,” he sighs in reference to the breakfast order, consisting partly of sausages and bacon.

Bill glares at him, but he doesn’t catch it. Going vegetarian has been on Bill’s mind for years - just another of those things he puts off for a later time. In a few years, maybe. At that undecided point in the future where they can settle down somewhere. He’ll have a dog, and he’ll stop eating animals. And he’ll never be without Tom - he’ll always have him, as long as he keeps his shit together and doesn’t step out of line. That’s about as far as his plans go. He’s talked it over with Tom a few times, but he keeps saying the same things: Keep your eyes on the road. Don’t think about that now, we have to be up early tomorrow. Anything that ties them back to the inevitable present.

Bill understands it. If they didn’t stay in the now, living job to job with focus only on current plans, this would never work. If they let themselves dream away to impossible, unthinkable things - the kind of stuff that is everyday ponderings to others but an unaffordable luxury to them - they’d be caught in an instant. Doing that wouldn’t be cautious and it wouldn’t be fair to Tom, would it? His older brother, always looking out for him, saying the right things and keeping them safe. Bill wishes so bad that he didn’t want as much out of everything as he does. That he didn’t want more out of life, of the grind. Of Tom.

It’s been like this for years and it doesn’t stop and he wishes, god, Bill wishes his head wasn’t full of it right now. He should be focused and on top of their game because he knows by now how real the limbo they’re in right now is. Post job but there’s no way they’re safe, now or ever.

Yet here he is, across from Tom in a shitty diner in a shitty part of a shitty world, forsaking very real threats and wishing things were different. Maybe if there was even the faintest possibility that he would some day sit like this beside Tom instead of across from him, fingers laced together and bodies unashamedly close, Bill’s pretty sure he could do this for a while longer - years, decades. But it’s impossible, more unlikely than anything he can imagine, and he just hopes that it won’t make him lose his grip.

Tom keeps his half lidded eyes on the ceiling for a while. He traces the lines between the isolation tiles, notes the stains of dirt and age here and there. A misguided moth buzzes around one of the dusty lamps. As soon as he’s spotted it, the buzzing grows louder to him. It reminds him of the night before, the car, Bill grabbing his arm. Himself not letting go of that moment for hours on end as his eyelids grew heavier in the face of the dark road. Tom looks away, down on the table where the waitress right then places their overflowing plates. To his relief, the buzzing ceases.

They eat in silence as the sun rises and turns the sky outside the dirty windows a dreamy blue-lilac. A small crack in the thin veil-like clouds lets the sun through, making everything feel less real. Somehow, it makes things feel more possible than they would otherwise. In hindsight Tom blames the sun and the pastels and the eeriness of it all for what happens next.

The TV, which has been broadcasting every other of weather forecasts and cheap commercials, suddenly gives out siren sounds. It takes every ounce of Bill’s self control not to jump out of his seat - instead he just stares as Tom. His brother’s eyes are as wild as Bill feels. With a shaking hand, he points subtly as the door. Tom nods - they need to get out. Now.

It’s too late.

“WANTED! HAVE YOU SEEN THESE MEN?” the TV proclaims. It’s on modest volume, but to Bill it sounds as if his ear is pressed against its speakers. The screen displays the last mugshots he and Tom had taken, from after a street brawl ages ago. It suddenly becomes very clear to him how many people have entered the diner since they sat down. At least half of the stalls are occupied now. They’d need a miracle to get out of here unnoticed.

“Bill, come here,” Tom says through gritted teeth. He only vaguely knows what he’s doing, but something has to happen.

“What?”

“Come here. Lean in,” Tom repeats and Bill does, all shaky hands and confusion. Tom takes a deep breath. This better work - it has to work.

He kisses his brother.

It was a plan, laid out and thought through before. It really was - public displays of affection have been documented to make people uncomfortable and Tom wants nothing but to make everyone in the moderately crowded room look away. There were no other easy outs here. Behind them, he hears the speaker voice in the feature lay out their age, crime and relation to each other. Who would suspect they were brothers, seeing them like this?

It was really a plan, but he has a hard time to keep that in mind now. Actually, he forgot it as soon as his lips touched Bill’s and that itself was more than he’d ever thought it would feel like. They’re kissing and Tom is burning, would have vaporized the clouds outside had he been in the sun’s place.

Bill is glad this is a situation where he’s not required to react, to speak because he couldn’t if he wanted to. He kisses back without thinking because it all surfaces inside him and he’s never been good at stopping himself. This is the only thing he’s kept inside always, hidden because what else was he supposed to do? He knows what Tom’s doing, he knows the maneuver and he allows himself to be in it just this once. Just this one time.

It’s like in the books where they say seconds are hours long. It’s just a kiss, chaste and clean, lips to lips and breaths mixing for a two seconds, maybe three. It feels like ages to Tom. The world shifts with Bill’s lips, their creases that are almost too fine for him to even feel and his breath laced with the smell of cheap coffee. The TV feature ends and he leans back in his seat. He’s panting as if he’s run a marathon, sweating like it too. With cautious eyes, he takes the space in. Everything seems normal. Maybe no one was even watching.

“Good move,” Bill says quietly. His eyes are fixed on a spot of grease on the table.

“Listen -,”

“No, really,” he interrupts Tom and looks him right in the eye. “Good one.” His face tells Tom nothing.

After a few seconds, Tom breaks eye contact, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“Right. Let’s get out of here.”


	3. two.

They’ve done worse before. This isn’t the first time. Or maybe it is? Because something’s different in a way that terrifies Bill, chills his bones more effectively than the overworked air conditioning in the car. The nights are cold in dark alley ways and mattresses infested with lice in worn down homeless shelters. After both their parents passed away in a mugging turned murder that was never solved, Bill and Tom were on their own and they made an effort to stay that way. No gangs, no crews, no friends to keep them stuck in the dirt of their hometown where there were no dreams left for them anyway.

It gets cold. It gets lonely. Your brother who’s been there for you always, who always promises you to go through hell and back with his hand in yours, he’s all you have and need. Bill figures he should have known all these feelings could never be contained and sorted under one, safe label. Tom is everything he’s got and he is in everything, has laced his way into every corner of Bill’s being and it makes him squirm but it doesn’t make him want it to stop. He lives with it and stuff like the diner has happened before. They can get over it, he tells himself. They can and they will.

Like that time on the train station.

Bill sighs and stares out the car window, feeling it vibrating against his temple, and he remembers that time on the train station.

Early morning. They were fifteen, sixteen. Crisp air as they exit the station building out on the only platform, so early spring, maybe. Bill closes his eyes and listens to the car engine. He remembers putting his glove clad hand in Tom’s, exhale air turning into mist. Remembers “sorry,” because the night before had been such an overstep and if he tried hard enough he could still feel the taste of Tom in his mouth. There had been more words, some spoken and some less so. Tom had nodded and it had been okay. They knew that that night couldn’t - wouldn’t - shake the ground they both stood on.

Things like this had happened before, and they’d both said “sorry”. Bill doesn’t really know what that word means anymore but he knows that it has worked. In a way, he’s right now just waiting for Tom to say sorry.

It just doesn’t feel as certain that he will. Bill doesn’t know if he wants to hear it or not. Would the absence of an apology make it better or worse? Either way, would they be okay?

He sees his breath on the car window and Tom’s reflection too, his eyes on the road as they ought to be. His brother’s jaw is clenched tight. Bill reckons he’s thinking about the kiss, too. There’s too much silence and the anxiety riles in him like hot, writhing snakes in his belly.

Tom barely sees the road. He hates being this blinded by Bill and it happens more often than he wants to admit, but this time the tension is so palpable. It doesn’t help that they’re both running on too few hours of sleep or that his mouth feels drier than ever. He has no idea what to do and it’s impossible to pretend like there isn’t anything he should do.

Apologize. He should do it, just get it out as if it’s been dancing on the tip of his tongue since they left that dusty parking lot in the dim morning light. It’s just so fucking hard because he can’t ignore the feeling that something has shifted. That something changed for good. That’s not how it is, of course - Tom’s sure it isn’t because it could never happen like that. Whatever he wishes this would lead up to could never happen. He stalls and stalls, thoughts backing away to the back wall of his head. There’s no sense in why he feels like this. It was just a trick, a move to get them out as safely as possible. Nothing more than a trick.

It’s usually not a problem to live like they do, for Tom to live with the one he lives with. They talk, they solve things, they fight and they work it out - all from the front seats of their car or in shabby hostels, on street corners, in apartments for rent in bad neighbourhoods. It’s what they do and how it has to work. Why does the atmosphere in the solid steel body of the car feel so suffocating over something that could have been worked out with a simple stringing together of a few words? Tom’s not used to these fast changes that unroll a curtain of static between him and his brother, preventing him from getting through to him like he’s always been able to. It’s uncomfortable and alien and he wants it gone now now now, but he just cannot find the words, the right moment, so he just keeps his hands clenched around the steering wheel so hard his knuckles bulge.

He jumps in his seat when Bill suddenly inhales sharply and says:

“Take this next right. We need to stock up on food.”

“Sure,” Tom mumbles and obeys.

Fifteen minutes or so down the road, a grocery store reveals itself at the turn of a corner in the anonymous small town they’ve driven into. Tom brings the car to a halt. He stretches his fingers discretely, making his knuckles crackle. Beside him, Bill pushes the car door open, swings his long, lean legs out the side opening and stands swiftly up. He leans back in, peering at Tom from not long a distance at all. Small lines in Bill’s dry lips are crystal clear to his eyes. Tom looks away.

“Wait here with the stuff, I’ll get what we need.”

He’s back in no time, head down, hood up, grocery bags in each hand, that strut that always makes Tom feel like Bill was destined for so much more than this. Bill’s more discrete in looks than he used to be, all bare faced in terms of makeup and piercings. He got them all way earlier than dictated by law - to mark how much he belongs to himself, Tom reckons and it makes his heart swell to think about - but he took them all out except for the stud still in his tongue. One last sign that he’s more than just survival.

As they leave, Tom tries to let his apology out. It sits lodged in the curve of his throat, wet and heavy. He has to do it. He opens his mouth to speak, ignoring the nagging feeling that tells him he’s not sure what he’s doing, or why. Or if he means it.

“I’m sorry about the thing at the diner.”

“Why? It was good. It was a good get-out.”

Bill’s voice is small, but steady as ever. Did he imagine the tension, the overwhelming quiet? God, he sounds so calm. Too calm. Tom’s head buzzes.

“Yeah, but… Still. Didn’t turn out right.”

Bill sighs. He feels less anxious after Tom’s apology, but he’s not sure it’s good. It’s not as if a weight has been lifted from his chest. More like a pulled plug or a pinned balloon and slowly, slowly, emotions are slipping away from him and being replaced with… what? Disappointment?

He’s too tired for having feelings this complex but what’s happening is happening now. This is good, right? They can talk it out like they do anything and the car won’t reek of tension and unsaid things anymore.

At least not more than usual.

“It’s fine. I know,” he exclaims softly, eyes fixed on Tom who hasn’t looked at him since he got back from the grocery store.

“You sure?”

Bill doesn’t realise he’s reached out to put his hand over Tom’s on the steering wheel until he feels Tom tense to his touch. He doesn’t retreat. He loves it too much, and he loves Tom too much, and even though he can’t forget how that is true in more than one sense, he lets himself rest there. It’s not perfect and it’s not like before, but they have time. They have all the time in the world to ease back into how things have to work.

This is the one thing that cannot break. Tom is all he has, all he wants and if that means limitations and peeking and never knowing if a line will be crossed again or not, then that is what Bill will give.

“I’m sure.”

“Are we all good?” Tom mumbles quietly.

“Yeah,” Bill says. It sounds less like a lie than it is


	4. three.

The hostel room is badly lit and small in a way that makes the walls seem like they bulge inwards. Maybe they do, Bill thinks, because of the moist - mould sits lazily in the corners of the roof and floor. Nothing they aren’t used to.

They never intended to make a fortune off what they do. He and Tom try to keep the jobs as far apart as possible, spending no more than necessary until they scrape the sports bag’s worn floor. There’s no glamour to it like in the movies. No grand prize, no rough edged, dirt stained fame. Bill hasn’t reflected on if they want that or not, but he doesn’t think he does, at least. What would he do with that? He doesn’t know anything but this. Thus, he also doesn’t know any accommodations but this. He sees the mould creeping up the light yellow, crumbling wallpaper and doesn’t think much about it.

Tom went straight to the shower after they checked in. Hot moist seeps out the uneven space under the bathroom door, heating the room more effectively than the space heater in the corner that doesn’t really seem to be there for any other purpose but gathering dust. Bill stares at it, ignoring his inner turmoil because after all it’s not different from every other day in his life. He supposes this is what he means when he says he’s fine.

Tom comes out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his hips. When he lies down recklessly on the covers of the double bed dominating the tiny room, his dark brown hair spreads out like a spiky set of sun rays. The strands of hair immediately leave wet trails on the fabric beneath it. The darkness of the wet fabric makes out some kind of deep red almost-halo on the sun bleached bed covers. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. Bill watches his chest rise and then fall obnoxiously in silence. He’s glad the tension and thickness of the air from the car earlier is finally gone, although his anxiety and a new strange need is not.

“That was fucking needed,” Tom says quietly. “I’ve never felt cleaner in my life.” 

Bill laughs, a real laugh, throwing his head back and freeing his tense jaw. Tom always says that after he showers for the first time after a job.

“No really, feels great. Someone’d even left soap in there,” Tom chuckles, looking at Bill.

Tom enjoys few things as much as watching Bill laugh. The curve of his jawline, his chin and teeth and lips. His neck craning back, stubble on his chin and neck catching the light slightly. This, he thinks, is what happiness looks like. For the thousandth time, he wishes this wasn’t Bill’s life.

Escaping is as present to them as the now. For Tom, it’s almost never about him but about Bill. He himself is nothing special. With Bill, he’s certain the world has so much more to offer him. Tom can picture him all dressed up in silk and glittery jewelry and all the other things he sometimes gushes about, surrounded by beautiful people who all love and admire him. He can see him in an expensive uptown apartment, lounging, working, living a life he deserves. Tom thinks about these things so often as he watches Bill wash three year old t-shirts in laundromats or peering up in a newly awakened haze from the sidewalk of an alley way; this is not where he’s supposed to be. More than anything, it makes Tom feel guilty.

It’s getting late. They crawl under the covers, Tom careful to stay on his side of the bed. This is the first time they get some proper sleep since the robbery. His head, hair still damp, has barely hit the pillow before he falls soundly asleep.

* * *

The entire world, it seems, is unbearably electric. Especially the arm Tom has flung around Bill’s waist. It is just there, hot and heavy with unconsciousness. Bill, on the other hand, is very much awake.

He stares at nothing, trying to control his breathing as to not wake Tom up. It proves itself very difficult. His pulse is racing even worse than back at the diner - oh god, the diner. He can’t think straight, his thoughts looping out of sleeping attempts again and again and back to that kiss. The distraction of his own head is so strong that he can’t even try to make himself want Tom to move.

Somehow, this is way too intimate. Tom’s skin is pressed against Bill’s own where his t-shirt has ridden up - Bill knows that if it wasn’t this dark, he’d be able to see the tiny palm tree and island tattooed on his lower belly peek out between Tom’s lazily spread fingers. This isn’t intentional. Maybe it feels more authentic and close because of that, because of Tom’s deep breaths against his neck, way too close. Bill tries to relax but he can’t get the image of Tom’s hand on his bare skin out of his head, fanned out like his brother’s hair after his shower. He doesn’t even try to stop himself from thinking about Tom in the shower. That obviously doesn’t help. Luckily, he’s too tense to feel even the faintest arousal through his anxiety.

What if Tom wakes up? What then? What if he wakes up and senses Bill’s tense limbs, hears his short, shallow breaths. This is too close. This is too big of a risk and it isn’t even his fault.

He blinks hard. It isn’t even his fault. He isn’t doing anything but trying to keep them both on the right side of the line he can’t afford to have them cross again. He isn’t doing anything but losing precious sleep over the thought of Tom never ever touching him because it would always remind him of this strange, strange night right after they’d agreed this isn’t what they are supposed to be.

Maybe it’s the fact that time seems non-existent, or maybe it’s the pebbles of sleep gathering in the corners of his eyes. Either way Bill is hit by an epiphany so overwhelming that he has to use all his willpower to keep his body from jerking. He’s going out of his mind, he’s sure of it, but Tom’s arm is so hot and real and his breath against Bill’s stubble reminds him that he hasn’t shaved for days and with everything that’s going on, Bill dares ask himself what it would be like if Tom was really awake right now. If Tom was looking at him, smiling that smile that convinces Bill that Tom is the disgusting, immoral love of his life, stroking his tattoo with feathery fingertips.

He dares think the smallest, most apologetic thought that maybe, maybe, maybe Tom feels the way he does. It makes so little and so much sense at the same time.

If that was the case, he thinks, only just sure that the stars in his vision aren’t really there, what would this be? What would they be? Bill’s pretty sure no one has ever loved anyone like he loves his brother. He knows that Tom would literally die keeping Bill happy and safe. They’d be otherworldly, ethereal. Sun and moon in constant eclipse because that’s how they allow themselves indulgence. And yet - no one would know. It could be so simple, so easy. It would be less like breathing and more like finally being able to. Bill has been under the surface gasping for air for years now.

Tom shifts in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent with sloppy lips. He pulls himself closer to Bill and places his head on his chest firmly, exhaling into a soft snore. He’s not heavy anymore, not at all, but gentle in a way a skull and brain and jaw shouldn’t be. Tom fits so well there, somehow. Bill feels himself relax there, his brother’s head on his chest, the top of his head just gracing Bill’s chin when he takes a breath. If there was only a streetlight outside, he’d be able to see the softness in Tom’s face that he can only hear in his breathing pace now.

God, they have so much history and baggage. They have so much of each other inside of them and Bill can feel it right now in this terrifying closeness. It terrifies him because he knows how temporary it is, how unreal and passing. This isn’t really happening - when he wakes up tomorrow it won’t have happened at all.

He falls asleep with that thought banging against the walls of his head. Just before fading out, he notes how he and Tom are breathing, heaving at the same pace. Carefully, he laces the fingers on his left hand into Tom’s hair.

* * *

Tom chain smokes outside the sickly green hostel building, leaning out over the balcony railing. He can’t remember his hands ever shaking this much before. There’s a slight rain over the parking lot he’s got a view over and a chill in the air, but that’s not why he’s shaking. However hard he tries to straighten it all out in his head, the morning shrinks back into a jumble of panic and he has to try several times to get a drag of his cigarette. He taps irregular paces on the railing with stale fingers, all pursed lips and sour smoke.

“Never again,” he mumbles.

He’s disgusted with himself, with how utterly reckless he is. How clumsy, how invasive, how excruciatingly out of line. Although he was asleep, he despises the calm he felt drowsing into consciousness. He despises the crackling of his limbs when he untangled them from around Bill, despises how he left strands of hair on his chest when he got out of bed as quickly and carefully as he could, panicking for every second of it. Never, ever, ever again.

It’s like the other evening at the diner just pushed him off the edge where he’d been balancing for so long he thought he’d grown safely stuck to the ground. Apparently, he hadn’t. He’s spilling out more and more, again and again over all limits. This has never happened before - he usually keeps himself on a mental leash so tight he wakes up with jaw and fists clenched, on his back as far out on the edge of the bed as possible whenever they share. Usually, he knows how to fucking behave. Something has happened. Something has changed. It makes him feel sick how bad he wants this.

He finishes his cigarette and flicks it away. It takes a graceful bow down on the parking lot. If he gets inside and back in bed quietly enough, maybe Bill won’t notice anything. Maybe this can be a misstep that didn’t happen and maybe he can get this raging train back on the right tracks, somehow. He could use his head’s full capacity on other things than Bill’s body heat or the prickling of his skin under Tom’s fingertips.

Carefully, quietly he goes back inside and into bed. Unlike the first time, his throughs whirr and turn for what feels like an eternity before he finally falls back asleep, arms wrapped tightly around himself.


	5. four.

Bill knows Tom’s only pretending to be asleep but he lets him rest. He’s breathing heavily, even putting on a fake snore every now and then, small curls of feigned unconsciousness interrupting the flatness of his exhales and inhales. It’s not really convincing. Not to Bill, at least - he knows the sound of Tom sleeping all too well.

He feels light inside, sitting in the only chair in their room. In his lap sits an empty container of heat-up soup (he didn’t heat it up) and he feels properly alive for the first time in days with some food in his system. They’re going to be okay, one way or another. Right there, in the chair, mid-day in a hostel room that doesn’t really exist in the real world, Bill knows that they’ll be fine, somehow. In the turmoil that is everything they’ve done, are doing, and will do, they’ll find a place where they can be.

Tom grunts and rubs his eyes theatrically, much to Bill’s amusement. He plays along, though.

“Slept well?”

Tom looks over at him and nods, eyes avoiding direct contact. Something is wrong. Fucks sake, why does something always have to be wrong?

“Uh. Yeah. Woke up for a bit, couldn’t fall back asleep.”

Fuck it.

“You slept on me for a while,” Bill says as casually as he can. He can’t make up his mind whether it sounds like an accusation or a thank you.

“I did? Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t even realise.” Tom is all hunched back and tense shoulders, only his profile turned to Bill as he speaks. A beard, maybe three weeks old or so, clings to his chin and roughens his face, but his lips are soft in the backlight from the window. He’s lying.

As much as Bill hates the barrier Tom’s building, the one he thought they managed to tear down the other day in the car, he hates fighting more. They’re both still infinitely tired, he tells himself, throwing a glance out the window and the cold hued sun light. Belonging is a strange thing. Maybe he doesn’t belong as close to Tom as he thought. Maybe this conversation doesn’t belong in this moment.

“I’m gonna have a smoke,” he tells Tom and heads for the door. His brother mumbles something in response. 

  


They stay for some time - five days, a week, Tom isn’t exactly sure. The first night heals away from him, slowly melts off him. Things go back to as normal as can be. The small town they’ve settled in is sleepy and quiet in a way that only small towns in a big country can be and they deal with it by planning and grocery shopping and talking. After all, neither of them have ever been big on sight-seeing: What’s the point of getting to know a place you know for sure you’ll have to leave behind? So they don’t. As always, though, the fleeting feeling of something vaguely similar to home tugs and moves in them both. If they were lucky and maybe not themselves, this could be where they belong.

All Tom focuses on is the mornings. It gets almost eerily quiet in the early hours and he wakes up with the sun like clockwork. It’s been a long time since he last slept a whole night through. Most of the time it frustrates him, but here, in the aftermath of a bit too much of everything, he finds peace in watching his brother sleep. Some days, the morning sky and sun casts violet light over Bill’s features at 5 or 6 AM and Tom curses himself for being so corny but he can barely remember how to breathe when it happens. His stubble glimmers, his mouth falling shamelessly, carelessly open and small flakes of his slightly chapped lips catch the light. His hair, half roots, half bleach blonde at this point, fans out over his pillow. Tom watches him, watches his stubble and lips and his body heave with each breath. The sun rises, Tom feels the wrench in his chest as it does because the moment when he’ll have to pretend to be asleep when Bill wakes up or to pretend he’s been up getting ready for a while creeps up on him too fast. It’s worth it, though. What he can steal of Bill is worth it.

Bill, on the other hand, keeps his distance even more. His averted eyes and stiff jointed speech makes Tom feel guilty for his dishonesty, the lies and facade he has been presenting since that morning at the diner - and, indirectly, for almost as long as he can remember. He knows it will pass, eventually. If he tries hard enough, he can pretend that the numbness Bill’s behaviour causes him is worse than the pain and panic he used to feel at times like these. It really is not his place to regret anything more or less than he does, not his place to take what he knows he left up for Bill to keep when he lied about not noticing Bill on his chest. It’s not the time. It probably never will be.

One morning, he wakes up not to the sunlight that sneaks up on him but to the sound of tires shrieking. Tom sits up straight with a swimming head of dreamlike thoughts at the sudden noise. No one drives like that in this town to his knowledge and something in his gut tells him that this has to do with them. He looks, eyes narrow and sore, around the room for any telling signs.

It hits him like a bullet from a gun barrel, sharp and sudden and with an agony at close to unreal measures.

The bag is gone.

  
“WHAT THE FUCK!”

Bill wakes up, startled to consciousness by his brother’s frustrated hurl of obscenities. Tom, dressed in boxers and a t-shirt worn down to the threads, throws himself around the confined motel room in panic. Into the bathroom, sounds of frantic rummaging, out again, flat on the floor to look under the bed, under the corner chair, lifting a pillow with half-hearted dedication to the search right there.

“What’s happening?” Bill yawns, pulling himself up and supporting his half-horizontal frame on his elbows. Tom turns to him, arms hanging down his sides limply. His face is twisted beyond recognition with panic.

“The money. The fucking dough, it’s gone. I heard them leave, the filthy -”

“What?! Wait, what?!” 

Tom climbs onto the bed, grabbing Bill’s shoulder to shake him. It makes him terribly dizzy, terror building in his chest.

“Didn’t you LISTEN! Our MONEY IS GONE!”

“Let go of me!” Bill protests with a force that shocks even himself. His head hurts, he’s tired but as it dawns on him what Tom tries to tell him, he feels more awake than he has in his whole life. He runs his hands through his hair as soon as Tom leans back, sitting on his knees in a straddle position over Bill’s legs and the duvet. They just stare at each other for a second before a stream of words pour out of Tom, fast and sharp and buzzing with anxiety.

“I just heard their car, people in this town don’t drive like that, they must have been passing and trying their luck, we were so fucking stupid to keep it all in one place, I can’t believe we didn’t plan for all risks, we always do, we can’t be this fucking scattered, we have t-”

Bill puts a hand on Tom’s shoulder that he hopes is calming somehow because he sure as hell does not feel calm himself.

“Okay. Fuck. Okay, so we fucked up. What do we do now? We need more cash.”

Before he has finished the sentence, Tom starts shaking his head in almost comical disbelief.

“It’s not even only about the money! It doesn’t matter how much more we can get or how soon or anything! None of that matters if we’re gonna be this fucking sloppy! This is all-” Tom stops himself, shaking his head and tapping it softly with his index finger. “This is all our fault.”

“I’m not following,” Bill says quietly although he’s fairly sure he knows exactly where Tom is going.

Tom glares at him. 

“You know what I mean. We’ve been in each other’s heads way too much since last time.”

An irritation rises in Bill, hot and stinging. Tom apologized. Then, when that wasn’t enough to make it as okay as can be between them, Tom lied. This mess has been growing between them for way too long. Now Tom has the stomach to sit here, zipped up to the point where he barely has words for what they have done, telling him that the problem is the chaos he himself has had such a vital part of upholding.

God, he’s so tired of this. Every moment of the past few days, every snapshot of Tom edged into Bill’s brain burns in the corners of his eyes along with the uncertainty of their situation making him feel so irrevocably small and scared. If the twins had been okay, they could have dealt with this complication better. Now he barely has Tom on his side.

He throws his hands out in exparation.

“Okay! So we’re not fine!” he says, voice hoarse with the emotions he’s holding back. “Maybe you finally want to talk about it? Maybe you finally want to admit it, or tell me what the fuck we’re doing here?”

“Maybe YOU want to,” Tom says. He sounds like a twelve year old, his turned away gaze communicating the ability to handle confrontation of someone in that same age range. 

“Please. You know.”

“Know what?” Tom presses.

Silence. Bill picks at a thread in the duvet, feeling with intensity the heaviness of Tom’s body on his legs. This goes way deeper than the past couple of weeks or the theft of everything they had. This goes way deeper than anything.

“You know,” he repeats. “You know I want to…”

You know I want to kiss you again.

You know I want to tell you what I’ve pretended I don’t feel. 

You know I want you to know without me having to say it.

You know I want us to be any two other people, anywhere else but here.

That’s what Bill thinks. He takes a couple of milliseconds to decide, to weigh back on his heels in his head, yet don’t think too much. Tom turns his head to look straight at him and that’s how he knows.

They will have time soon. There’s no air between them anymore, the heavy wall of guilt from all their lives running has crumbled here in their room that feels painfully claustrophobic and scarily vast at the same time. What Bill wants to say floats between them. Tom drinks it all in like he’s always been able to. He does not have to speak.

“I know,” Tom breathes, then carefully climbs off the bed. His knee brushes over Bill’s as he swings off of him. “I’ll check the hit list,” he says, referring to their list of places to hit to score across the country.

If they come out of this smoothly, Bill thinks as he gets dressed and brushes his teeth, maybe there’s something new waiting for them on the other side. They got somewhere, anywhere today and if they plan this right and do it like they always do - together - this could be it.

It could really be it.


	6. five.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next to last.

It takes them a few weeks of preparation and planning to get it all together. They’ve grown quicker, more efficient over the years; they know the procedure inside out at this point. Pick a spot off the list, check it’s still accurate and favourable. Whip up a plan, as precise as they always make it. Prepare, as focused as they always do it. They don’t talk much about anything else. It’s right there, though. Tom can feel it, the tension, the hesitation in the air to let him exhale into it. His shoulders are sore with vigilance. There’s no sense to talk about, to talk him into.

There’s no going back to where they used to be. The future, on the other hand, is so uncertain he’s not sure there’s any going forward either. Tom waits, watches Bill as they work and lay the plan out. This job becomes a symbol to him: if it works out, they can talk about what is going on with them. If they come up with a solution to a problem at hand before it gets too dark in the confined space of the front seat of their car, he can smile at Bill in that way that earns him an identical smile back, only brighter. It’s a game, he knows this, but he can only play it because he knows that something impossible has been made just vaguely possible.

He chokes on the words “you know” every time his eyes catch Bill’s.

The place they pick, a small bank office with security documented to be lazy, is just the next town over. They drive over in the early morning hours. Tom argues they should live out of the car to save money, but Bill convinces him they are much better off well rested in a bed with at least two inches of mattress beneath their strained backs and enough space to stretch their legs out as they rest.

“This is the only free one,” the hunched, greasy receptionist announces tiredly as he unlocks the door to their room and hands them the key. “If you don’t want it, you gotta go somewhere else.”

Tom feels as if he’s sinking when he sees the room. It is a good one - cleaner than their last one, curtains by the window. A double bed with dark red covers dominates the room. Everything they need.

Tom had just hoped that maybe they would get a single bed each this time.

“No, it’s fine,” he mumbles and shoves a couple of notes in the receptionist’s hand, shouldering his way through the door. Bill follows him, and it begins.

  


Bill frowns, rubbing his temples.

“But if we drive and top up gas the night before, and then we -”

“I keep telling you, we don’t have time!” Tom says and taps a spot on the street map with his pen. “The closest gas station is too far away.”

“Oh my god,” Bill rolls his eyes, “are you missing this again? Right there?”

Tom’s face turns slightly red as Bill puts the tip of his finger on a gas station marker on the map, no more than a fifteen minute drive away. It is late, which Tom with a determined frown accepts as the explanation for his scattered thoughts. That, and this not being the first but at least the twentieth in a row of planning days. They go over the plan, then they sleep, then go over it again. The last two times, they did not find a single step of it that wasn’t absolutely bulletproof.

They are ready, technically, and even practically Bill can’t wait. As little as he likes to admit it, it is all he knows how to do. Somewhere he loves it, like you love a childhood room or the one handle on a kitchen cupboard that keeps breaking. How could he not?

He stretches, his back protesting. It is late, again, but at least they are going somewhere. The escape route is planned, the blocks mapped out. Bill looks out the window into the pitch black outside. There is a definite air about this moment, a smallness and a hugeness at the same time. They are anyone, any people out of billions. Tomorrow will be their entire lives and nothing at all to everyone else.

He breaks the thoughtful silence softly.

“It looks pretty done to me.”

Tom looks up from the map he has been tracing, making a “hm?” noise. 

“The plan, the map,” Bill clarifies. He leans back to support himself with his hands on the floor. “I think we’re done.”

Tom lets out a deep sigh.

“I guess. So we go tomorrow?” he says. Bill hears his hesitance under his casual tone of voice.

“We can always hold it out for another day,” he replies with a doubtful expression, “but I really don’t think it’d get us anywhere in any direction.”

Tom looks at him. He hoped it would make him less weary to reach this point, but instead he has spent the past half hour trying to find loopholes, reasons to push the job up another day, another week.

They have been floating in limbo since their money was stolen - neither of them has said a word about what Bill said back in that room. Now and then, Tom has questioned whether it really happened or not. Bill walks to the grocery store or down to the reception or just into the bathroom for a second, disappearing, and Tom wonders if he got it all wrong. Maybe it was the heated situation. Maybe it was just stress talking, maybe Bill was covering up for something else. Maybe, if Tom is lucky, this will not be something he has to deal with - even though he wants to.

There is just too much, and he can’t stop himself from thinking about everything that has gone, if not wrong, then somewhere it should not have. He just wants to put it all on hold. For the millionth time, Tom wishes their life was something other than this.

He shakes his head profusely to clear his head.

“No, we do it tomorrow. We can do it, the plan is solid,” he says. 

“Are you sure?” Bill asks him. He puts one hand on Tom’s shoulder, a concerned look on his face.

Something was lacking, and now it isn’t anymore.

The warm pressure of Bill’s hand is so unexpected to Tom that he almost flinches away. Like that, he knows, the realization dawning on him as he takes the room in: the cold floor, the dim lights, Bill. He closes his eyes just for a second to gather himself. Tom knows exactly what he needs - it is startling, almost terrifying how easily the pieces slip into place. He is nervous, he is tired, but he knows he is not alone.

“I’m sure,” Tom replies. “Just…”

He couldn’t stop himself if he wanted to. With a low voice, soft and steady and the complete opposite to how he feels, Tom says:

“Just one thing. Bill, could you please….” he trails off, but Bill’s hand is under his chin and his face is close as if he knows what is coming. Maybe he even does. The air is palpable, thick and warm and sticky.

“Could I please what,” Bill whispers.

There is a strange feeling of “right” in what is happening. It is all so right - tomorrow they get their money back, their lives back on track. The motel room has curtains that are not drawn, but they don’t have to be because the town is asleep outside. Right now, they exist nowhere. It does not matter. They are both there in the nothingness. Together, so close they breathe each other’s air in.

“Could you please kiss me?” Tom says. His voice is almost inaudible. Almost non-existent. Does he want to disappear or to finally actually exist?

The answer - he still does not know which, but regardless - is in Bill’s lips. They grace his own softly, oh so softly, and Tom knows this is where he is supposed to be. This is different than last time and the times before that that they pretend never happened. Out of fear, out of desperation for the tiniest shred of stability in their raging runaway train of a life. Here it is. Everything they have been looking for. All his tension is gone and he sits there, lets himself be kissed into bliss.

Bill has never felt more at home in his life. Home has always, always been Tom but this is different to everything else, in every way. The taste of Tom’s mouth, his neck to the palm of Bill’s hand - this is where he is supposed to be. Tom kisses him back so deeply, treasuring him, letting him know in that way that only they master. Every small movement, every shift and clatter and sound they make tells him what he needs to know. This is so, so different from last time. No hidden intentions or cover-up reasons. This is real.

It is over faster than either of them would have liked. Bill rests his head on Tom’s shoulder, panting.

“Like that?” he breathes against the shell of Tom’s ear. He can sense Tom smiling.

“Thank you,” Tom says. He turns his head slowly to press a kiss to Bill’s temple.

Bill does not want to ask, does not want to have to infect this with reality. He knows he has to, though.

“Is this… Is this it now?” Bill asks quietly.

He needs to hear Tom say it. He just does.

Tom is quiet for a second.

“I think it is. Yes, it is,” he says. His words hang in the air like a monument, signifying everything they have gone through for this. Bill lifts his head from Tom’s shoulder. They are face to face now, eye to eye trying to figure it out.

“I love you,” Bill says quietly, biting his lip to keep himself from saying it again, again, again. The walls of the dam have fallen - he is flooded with words and they are all for Tom. After tomorrow, he reminds himself, he will have all the time in the word to say them.

“I love you more,” Tom says, his smile warmer than it has been in a long time. “Let’s get some sleep before tomorrow.”

“After tomorrow…,” Bill trails off.

Tom stands up from the floor and reaches a hand out to help Bill up.

“After tomorrow, it’s just you and me and everything we want,” he says with a confidence he doesn’t recognize but basks in, relieved and revived. Every colour is bright, Bill’s hand burns hot in his own. This night means something special.It means they can go anywhere from here. 

Bill finally falls asleep with the heaviness of Tom’s arm over him and his body heat radiating against Bill’s back, incredibly close. Tom himself sleeps the entire night through, despite the sun peaking through the window and obnoxious birds chirping. They have not experienced peace like this since either of them can remember.

Bill wakes up around five am and falls asleep only minutes later with a conviction better than life itself: They are safe, and they are together, and after this, they can have it all. As long as he has Tom - and now he really does have him - everything will be worth it and then some.


	7. six.

Tom kisses the back of Bill’s neck softly to wake him up.

“Hey,” he says, the smile in his voice soothing and evident. The tiny hairs on Bill’s skin tickle him as his brother shifts and turns to face him. His smile outshines the morning sun, somehow. Tom wonders when he got this fucking cheesy.

“Show day,” Bill mumbles loosely.

He should be stressed out, but he cannot find it in him. Not here, not now. It shocks Bill how quickly he was able to let go of so much guilt and tension, but t the same time, he cannot for his life remember why he held onto that for as long as he did. Was it worth being in control? The person who made those decisions is long gone. Maybe he never really existed.

Tom strokes his face from temple to chin, an ever so soft touch. His lips follow and he traces Bill’s jaw and up to his lips with tiny kisses. It is bliss - there is no other word for it in any language Bill knows.

“Yeah,” Tom mumbles against his neck. His breath is warm, humid and marking.

Bill withdraws, propping himself up on one elbow, chin in hand. His other hand trails down the mattress and under the duvet until he finds Tom’s and laces their fingers together. It is as small yet as monumental a thing to do - he is buzzing, the feeling of Tom’s skin to his old and new at the same time. 

Is this them now? Is this it? Tom said so. Bill trusts him.

“I love you,” he mumbles and brings their entwined hands up to his face to kiss the back of Tom’s.

Tom smiles, his eyes crinkling almost shut.

“Love you.” He yawns deeply before sitting up and swinging his legs off the edge of the bed. 

“Let’s get ready.”

Tom’s voice speaks volumes about how anxious he is for it all to be over. He is - it’s hard for him to keep the plan in mind when what comes after is all he thinks about. A couple of stress free weeks, as stress free as can be, Bill in his arms. Drifting asleep and staying awake together with what they suddenly have now. He dresses, ties his hair up, brushes his teeth and the dream of what is so close doesn’t leave him for one second.

Bill collects all their gear in a bag, along with an additional one for the money. It’s bright red, which bothers him, but it was the only one the street corner shop had. He guesses it won’t matter much. It is just one job, he knows this, but it still feels like it will change everything; these small worries will melt away in the car on the way far away. He pictures lacing his fingers with Tom’s between the passenger seat and the driver’s seat after. It feels real, palpable already.

He watches Tom tie his shoes and clears his throat to speak.

“Tom?”

“Hmm?” Tom lets out, eyes still on his shoelaces. His fingers are still slightly stiff with sleep.

Bill hesitates for a second before speaking, hands tucked under his thighs where he sits on the bed. His head spins a little with everything that has happened. He does prefer this mess to the organized pattern of restraints that used to be his brain, though. The ties untie themselves one after another. This is just the next one.

“What then?” he asks, quietly but clearly. The walls are down now. He knows Tom knows what he means.

Tom finally looks up. A small smile plays around the corners of his lips as he supports himself on his knuckles, sitting almost curled up in a ball over his bent knees. The nervousness stirs in Bill’s belly, although he knows it’s fine. Everything will be fine, won’t it?

“In just a couple of hours,” Tom says softly with his eyes fixed on Bill, “you and I will be far away from here. We can talk. We can have more times like last night.”

He has another smile, secretive and anticipating, in his voice as he speaks the last words. Bill knows he means it. God, he knows he means it.

There is so much to be said - Bill is still used to having to say it all out loud. He does not have to anymore and it’s relieving, as if he had been breathing through a cloth of fabric for so long he had forgotten how good it feels to do it normally. Every look and subtle hint that goes through to Tom is a fresh gulp of air that his body screams for. It makes him dizzy to think about an entire life of this, of everything being as easy as breathing with Tom. So close. He supposes this is what it feels like to actually be fine.

“Can’t wait”, Bill replies, pushing himself off the bed. With the huge supply bag in one hand, he puts the other on Tom’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

They walk to the car hand in hand. Tom takes the bright sun as a good sign.

  


They move up to the office as if on auto pilot. The streets are empty - it is still early morning, but an employee or two are visible through the large front windows. This is small scale, smaller than usual for them. It has never really been this easy before. Bill has his gun half hidden in his hand, palms sweaty but his grip on the handle is firm. The red bag is over his shoulder. Tom moves with him through the doors, so close behind that Bill feels his body heat radiating against his back. He closes his eyes for a second before getting to work. They need this, and now he is going to do it.

“Everyone on the ground!” he exclaims, pointing his gun back and forth between the young woman and the man with the balding head behind the two counters that divides the hall. Their stunned, terrified faces disappear out of sight as they lie down.

“I’ll keep them down,” Tom says through clenched teeth, swinging his legs over the counter and landing with a snapping sound on the linoleum floor. With the calm of experience, he almost carelessly points his gun at the two people on the floor. 

He never shoots at people. That is a moral he allows himself. 

Bill makes his way across the counter too, ravishing the lockers and drawers behind for any cash he can find. The office is small, without even a vault or a locked compartment to serve them. It does not matter - this will be more than enough. Routine job, routine search, routine moves, routine plan. Bill has the trade in his veins.

He has only just started when Tom speaks.

“Bill. Bill, look out the window.” Bill does not pick up the tremor in his voice until he sees for himself.

Outside, on the other side of the glass just a few feet away, stands a man. He is blonde, neither old nor young, and he is holding a cell phone, watching them.

At the same time as Bill lets out a shaky “Fuck”, he hears the sirens.

“Fuck!” he repeats loudly, shoving everything in the locker in front of him into the bag. It is only half full, but their time was up long ago. “Let’s go, now!”

Everything happens so fast and so slowly at once. Bill juts forward for the door, bag in hand and heart in his throat. Tom is with him and Bill grasps at his fingers behind him to hold his hand, pull him with him out and away. They are out the door, running as fast as their legs can take them. Bill still has not quite managed to catch Tom’s hand.

“Stop and put your hands behind your heads!”, Tom hears someone shout behind them almost as if through water, faded and distorted. Everything in his body is pushing him forward, onward after Bill towards the car. His gun is heavy in his hand.

“Don’t stop,” Bill heaves. 

And then Tom is gone.

Bill hears the loud pang first, then Tom’s steps behind him fade away completely.

There is blood on the sleeve of his shirt on the arm he reached out for his brother with. Against all better knowledge, Bill stops.

A body lies in the street between him and the unknown number of officers shouting gibberish at him. There is blood - already so much blood.

Someone is screaming and it takes Bill several moments to realize it is he himself. When he does, he runs. He runs like he has never ran before, for the car, the bright red bag with the money thumping against his side.

Somewhere, he knows what he is leaving behind. Somewhere, not here, he knows what he has lost. All he sees is the pool of blood pouring out over the street and between the pavement tiles. All he hears are sirens and white noise that takes his brain over.

  


Bill should not be driving in this state. He does not care.

His head is pounding, hands shaking on the steering wheel. He does not know how fast he is going.

The stains on his right sleeve where blood splattered from the wound itch in his eyes every time he catches sight of them.

He really should not be driving in this state, but there is nothing else that he can do.

He looks at the road, at the bag in the passenger seat, at the road, at his own face in the rear view mirror, at the road. His face is wet, tears streaming to soak his cheeks and neck and shirt. What happened? What happened? What the fuck has happened?

Tom is gone.

It hits Bill so hard that he almost suspects he caught a bullet himself and he checks his side, his chest, almost hoping he’ll find a hole somewhere oozing and drawing life out of him. He needs an explanation that is not this, that is not this huge, nameless loneliness.

He is gone. Tom is a body in the street that no one knows. He is bones and skin and torn up vital organs. He is a number in a morgue or on a dental card. No one knows his name. No one knows who he is.

No one knows who he could be.

Bill just drives. He drives and drives and drives for hours, the pain clawing in his chest. From time to time, he has to stop and throw up or scream or just clench and unclench his hands to stop them from shaking too bad.

What is he going to do now? What can he do? Where is Tom? Why is Tom not there?

Where is he?

He stops the car again as the sun starts to set slowly.

“Oh my god,” he sighs, almost whines before succumbing to his tears.

He never caught his hand. They promised each other so much - everything - just after this. Just this one job. Just this.

It was supposed to be the beginning. It was supposed to begin like this, and now Bill is half and Tom is gone and the entire world is lopsided, stitched up wrong and covered in blood.

Bill looks out over the dead field outside the car window, seeing nothing but his own devastated reflection in it. Cars pass him - people going home, or out of town, or somewhere new, somewhere exciting and beautiful and completely utterly normal.

No one knows that Bill sits here with blood on his clothes from the only person he has ever loved. Someone who does not exist anymore. No one will ever know just what Bill has lost.

No one knows, and Bill feels as if it is crushing him, the loneliness, the promises, the loss that is so big he can barely touch it without feeling like he will disappearing into it forever. It is the biggest temptation he has faced in his life.

He doesn’t even have his body. His brother is cold and dead miles and miles away from him. Bill has to fight hard not to run the car off the road as his vision goes black for several seconds when it dawns on him: He will never ever see Tom again. There are no pictures, no notes. He cannot go back for any of it. Every trace of him is gone, and Bill is the only one who remembers. Desperately, he tries to remember Tom’s touch, his warmth. His voice is fading from Bill’s memory already.

What is he doing here? What is the point without him? They were so close to having it all, having everything their little world could grant them. Bill feels the open wound where it was all ripped away as if it is physical. The phantom pains in the lack of Tom’s smile and eyes and lips and words pound through him.

There will be no little house, and no dogs, and no growing old. No kisses, no mornings in his arms. There will be no more explaining, no more comforting. There will be no talking. There will be no more nights like last night.

There will be no more feeling at home.

Bill is a spec of nothingness in a world of billions. He was someone with Tom. They were something - an existence, something big in the face of being so endlessly insignificant and small.. He wants nothing at all without him.

He closes his eyes, head pounding. It is late. The police will find him if he stops here, or they won’t. He really does not care.

With his head against the driver’s seat, breathing in and imagining he can feel Tom’s scent in the fabric, he slowly drifts off to sleep. Everything is dead. There is no strength left - the money in the passenger’s seat is nothing but pieces of paper to him. He can barely remember what to use them for.

Why it was so important to them in the first place.

Finally, Bill falls asleep with his blood stained sleeve pressed to his face. All the promises Tom never got the chance to grant him ring through his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this, thank you for reading.


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